


Awakening

by Gingerhermit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Ficlet, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Angst, Mary is Not Nice, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 12:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5666806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gingerhermit/pseuds/Gingerhermit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is just a short post-TAB little ficlet depicting what might have been going on in that plane cabin while Sherlock jaunting about Victorian London in his Mind Palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awakening

The jagged point of two steely gazes prickled the back of John’s neck as he studiously avoided any outward sign of acknowledging them. It was much easier to keep his own eyes fixed on a certain prone detective sprawled out in a halfway reclined airplane seat, although the only flying currently taking place was happening in the man’s plainly tormented mind. Sherlock’s eyes twitched rapidly behind his lids almost in time with the alarmingly fast staccato of his pulse against where John’s fingers were pressed to his flushed and clammy wrist.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was low and intent even as he muttered seemingly senselessly, as he had been doing off and on for the past several excruciating minutes. That, and “Watson.”

John’s throat might as well have been full of glass as he cleared it, fighting to keep his expression completely neutral. His very attentive audience just happened to include two of the most observant people in London, an unfortunate pair to have a front row seat to John’s inner turmoil. It didn’t help that John was utterly torn on a course of action. Rushing Sherlock directly to hospital would have undeniable consequences.

"He should be in hospital," Mary said from close behind John, as though she somehow had a direct window to the darkest current of his anxieties. Perhaps she always did. "He needs proper medical attention."

Although Mary didn't exactly stress the word _'proper'_ , an emphasis was strongly implied.

“And which hospital should we bring him to, hm?” John asked in a low voice, brittle enough to break into a thousand pieces if prodded too hard. “Since he’s supposed to be in prison or out the bloody country.”

"I'm sure the British Government can work that out. Can’t you, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's voice was surprisingly quiet, as though he'd lost his train of thought and was only halfheartedly chasing after it. "Yes. Of course." There was a pause, and then added as an afterthought, "I’ll leave that decision in Doctor Watson's capable hands.”

“Watson.” Sherlock’s hand surged out to grasp John’s in a surprisingly strong grip, and for a moment the entire cabin held its collective breath in anticipation. Instead of rousing properly, however, Sherlock merely seemed to sink more deeply into the drug addled fog of his unconscious mind. John was very keenly aware of the muggy heat where Sherlock’s hand still engulfed his own, and he was careful to settle it on the armrest before beginning a slow but purposeful extraction. “John.”

Once free, John’s fingers flexed in a quick spasm as his mouth tugged downwards with the impossible weight of his leaden thoughts. He was evenly torn between wishing the plane was empty of spectators and being glad for them, because what would exactly would he do if he were alone in this moment? What did he even _want_ to do? It seemed crucial to work it out, when he’d been dancing around the topic for over a year now. Longer, really, if he were honest with himself when he rarely was.

What did John want?

The agonizing goodbye from barely twenty minutes ago played on a savage loop through John’s mind. On center stage in his pageant of regret was the way he’d simply taken Sherlock’s offered hand instead of pulling him close. What would have happened if he had done so? John wouldn’t have been able to let go, surely. It seemed an utter certainty, as certain and predictable as the earth’s rotation around the sun, that once John Watson finally got his arms around that insufferable git properly he wasn’t likely to ever let go.

Christ, but John was tired of letting Sherlock go. Over and over again, in a hundred different ways. He always made the same choice, and it was always wrong, even when it seemed like the only choice available to make. Look what happened every time he did, how it wrecked them both.

And now Sherlock was boxing John’s heart bloody with every garbled iteration of his name. Was he really so intent on leaving John for good that he’d flown away even more swiftly than a plane could ever take him? Or was he fighting to stay this time, to claw his way back to John’s side?

“John.”

_What did John want?_

It was time to decide. Past time, really.

Resting his hand on the back of the seat, John leaned in even more closely and pointedly ignored his wife’s subtly irritated intake of breath as he said very softly with a resolve that settled deep in his bones, “Sherlock. It’s time you woke up.”


End file.
